


His Own Deliverance

by roonilxwazlib



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anxiety, Backstory, Canon Era, Wartime, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6749989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roonilxwazlib/pseuds/roonilxwazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt from hamiltonprompts.tumblr.com: "Hamilton wasn’t known for confiding in people about his life growing up. I’d like to see a fic(s) where he does however, talking about his upbringing to somebody, anybody, except a Schuyler sister. I’d really rather it be in the time period as well."</p><p>During a summer storm, Alexander very clearly has a lot of anxiety-- George Washington notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Own Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> lol my first hamilton anything and also my first time writing in like 10 years but there u go
> 
> i literally proofread this once but woooo
> 
> comment and give criticism pls!!!! I LOVE U!!

The storm, to be fair, was a bad one.

Wind mercilessly attacked the tent that Alexander sat in with Washington. They worked late into the night most times, writing and planning, strategizing and discussing. Alexander would soon return to his own tent, however hard the rain beat down or the wind tried to blow him off course. The thunder that grew louder by the minute reverberated through the dirt ground into Alexander’s bones. His hands began to shake, the quill vibrating back and forth as he tried to focus.

Focus. The words—his words—it was what he had. The lightning would not strike him, the thunder would not break the bones in his chest. He would not drown in the rain. Focus-- he had to focus. But the sentences he had already written blurred in front of him, his last few words were illegible. He was losing his words.

“Hamilton,” Washington said from his desk, his eyes squinting in concern, “are you all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander responded immediately. Too quickly. Washington stared a moment longer, his own quill resting in his hand. Alexander began writing again as sweat dripped down his temple. A loud rumble, more menacing than the ones prior to it, filled the silence between them. The scratch of Washington’s quill on parchment filled the room.

The wind picked up, pushing at the walls of the tent. They flapped in and out loudly while the rain poured down, cold and heavy. Each tap, tap, tap of droplets hitting the tent’s roof made Alexander tense. His quill fell out of his hand. Another flash of lightning and crash of thunder. 

Panic crept into Alexander’s throat. He couldn’t breathe—his quill laid at his feet and Alexander did not move to retrieve it. The letter that he was writing seemingly disappeared in front of him, melting and washing away with the rain. The rain, it was pouring in. Waves upon waves, and the thunder grew louder. The wind—Alexander couldn’t breathe through it. It took the air from his lungs. The water was rushing in, pooling at his feet. His shoes were soaked through; it slowly climbed up the length of his legs. The tent, with a magnificent gust, blew over completely and—

Washington held up Alexander’s dropped quill to his face. 

Focus. 

Alexander breathed heavily and, with a trembling hand, took the quill from him. The tent was intact, there was no flood at his feet.

“Hamilton,” Washington said again, “son, are you all right?”

A pause. “Yes, sir.”

“I do not appreciate dishonesty.”

Alexander sighed. Washington couldn’t know.

“I’m not feeling well tonight, sir. My apologies, I only wished to continue work.” Another lie. His mother had always said he could lie his way through life. Such a writer he was, she would say; he could always make up stories.

Washington’s gaze was unrelenting. “I do not appreciate dishonesty, Hamilton,” he repeated.

“It’s nothing, sir,” Alexander said, “I am not very fond of storms.”

“Why is that?” Washington persisted. He leaned over Alexander’s workspace. He remained quiet, eyes looking everywhere but at Washington’s face.

“You’re not one to be silent, Alexander,” Washington said after a moment. He moved slowly back to his desk, bringing with him his chair. He sat next to Alexander, nearly on top of him.

“You know,” Washington began, “you are my most trusted adviser and yet, I recently realized, I know very little of you, Hamilton.”

Alexander’s heartbeat picked up again. He had worked so hard to get to America, to get to where he was—as Washington’s right hand man. But Washington was right, and trust, Hamilton and Washington both agreed, was quintessential when fighting a war. He cleared his throat.

“There was a hurricane,” he said quickly, “where I’m from. It was a few years back, but it was bad.” Thunder continued to rumble distantly, the rain pounding on the tent grew gentler.

Washington nodded, “And where are you from? The only thing I know about you, son, is your name.”

And that was Alexander wanted anyone to know. He sighed.

“I grew up in the Caribbean—St. Croix, on Nevis. My father had abandoned us-- my brother, my mother and I. My mother died from sickness shortly after. My brother and I were passed onto a cousin of ours who, unfortunately, committed suicide not long after. I was separated from my brother James after—he wasn’t smart, not that he was dumb. He worked for a carpenter. There was a hurricane then. A horrible hurricane, my house was destroyed. So, I read and I wrote,” Alexander shrugged, “I did what I had to do.”

With rapt attention and curious eyes, Washington listened. Alexander averted his eyes, kicking at the ground at his feet.

“I don’t know. I’m only here today because of my town, they all funded my trip here. They—I think they recognized my intelligence, wanted more for me,” Alexander scoffed, “The poor bastard orphan.”

Washington opened his mouth to protest, but Alexander spoke before he could, “I’m not a poor bastard orphan. I don’t want that to be who I am. I’m smart. I can write well, really well. I’m only alive today because I’m smart—I’m reckless and impulsive and quick to argue, but that’s how I had to be, that’s how I’m here. My words, my intelligence—it’s all I have,” he sighed, “Thunderstorms get under my skin. I can never forget the devastation and terror that that first hurricane instilled in me.”

The rain became a drizzle. The howling wind died down into a strong breeze. A candle flickered behind Washington’s head.

“I do not look down upon you for what you just told me, Alexander,” he said, “If anything, I admire it. All of it.”

Alexander wrung his fingers, “Not too many agree with that sentiment. An immigrant has no place.”

“Immigrants are why we are sitting where we are right now,” Washington retorted, eyes intense, “You are an immigrant who is currently creating this country. You, more than most, have a place here.”

Head down, Alexander stared at his feet. With a sigh, Washington heaved up from his chair, moving to stand over Alexander.

“Son,” he said, “look at me.”

Another pregnant pause. He lifted his head to meet Washington’s eyes.

“You are not weak for your past. You’re strong. Already, you’ve made yourself someone. History will not forget that.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander said, his eyes locked on Washington’s. 

Washington nodded, then pulled back and clapped his hands together.

“Now,” he began, moving to sit down once more, “tell me about your mother. And your brother. I find it to be a bit disconcerting that there’s another Hamilton out there.”

Alexander laughed softly and dove in, for the first time, talking about his mother—how much he missed her and James, about his old friends on the island, about the hole his father had left. And Washington listened.

Outside, the skies cleared completely.


End file.
